


Phantom Pain

by owlsshadows



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (i just laugh because this tag exists but really akaashi is a sculptor in this fic), Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Artist Akaashi Keiji, Flashbacks, Future, M/M, Some Humor, adults with regrets or not, almost canon compliant, and some melancholy just for the sake of it, mentions of foot fetish, of teenagers with crushes, some ten years passed since canon timeline, such fabulous tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 08:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10590117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlsshadows/pseuds/owlsshadows
Summary: There’s nothing Kuroo Tetsurou has in common with art galleries. He’s not a huge fan of modern art – or rather, he has absolutely no idea how to interpret it. Still, he stands in front of a gallery exhibiting exclusively contemporary pieces.It is the debut of Akaashi Keiji, the sculptor, after all.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [studmuffind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/studmuffind/gifts).



> This was supposed to be a -Christmas- present for Immodea(studmuffind)! ((I am not late AT ALL. lol))  
> (So yeah... everyone who's waiting for any of my ongoing series, they are coming, surely but SLOWLY.)

There’s nothing Kuroo Tetsurou has in common with art galleries. He’s not a huge fan of modern art – or rather, he has absolutely no idea how to interpret it. Still, he stands in front of a gallery exhibiting exclusively contemporary pieces. 

Going to an exhibition is not really Kuroo’s cup of tea. It was originally Kenma’s idea to come, yet he bailed out on Kuroo last minute. He has always been a master of not going anywhere. This time, he said it was diarrhoea; Kuroo guesses it was the release of a new game. Not that he minds… he could never really get angry at Kenma for skipping out on social activities (apart from that one time Kenma stood him up and left him alone when they had promised to have a double tennis match against Bokuto and Akaashi, because Bokuto was not convinced that it’s a bad idea to play 2-on-1, and that one game nearly killed Kuroo). He simply feels awkward, standing here alone, in a place he knows he doesn’t belong. It would be good to have Kenma with him, to have some of his silent reassurance, or his deadpan comments which can miraculously ease Kuroo’s nerves. But Kenma is at home, curing his non-existent diarrhoea with a video game console.

Kuroo Tetsurou is envious of the kindergartener who walks past hand-in-hand with his mother in front of him on the pedestrian walk. This is the difference between a child and an adult: the latter is the same as the former, only more panicked without the familiar hand to hold on to.

Kuroo swallows hard, gathering his courage to enter the gallery. Since he has already arrived, he decides to enter. It is the debut of Akaashi Keiji, the sculptor, after all.

 

He didn’t hear about Akaashi for at least three years. 

During university they still had their regular get-togethers, with Bokuto being the glue holding their friendly cycle together, but since the ex-ace’s shotgun wedding, their casual gatherings became rarer and rarer, and finally they died off around the time Kuroo won a scholarship abroad.

It’s been two years since he has been back in town now, but apart from Kenma, he doesn’t really meet with anyone on a regular basis. The Nekoma kids scattered: Yaku moved to the countryside, Lev has been playing in Russia, Fukunaga applied to a university in Sapporo, Taketora moved to Sendai to run a restaurant with the Tanaka siblings of Karasuno, and Kai was off at sea on some fishing boat to observe marine life.

It is not so much different with Bokuto either.

Naturally, they have been in contact, going out for drinks every second month or so, catching up on life. They still favour the same brand of beer, have the same sense of terrible humour, and have a common affection for volleyball. Yet, there is an untraceable, slight shift, caused by time and the wind of events, slowly drifting them apart.

Bokuto by now is a father of three, his proudly announced “second son” turning out to be twin daughters. He has stories of kids going wild, complaints about the Shirofuku in-laws, and the price of diapers.

Kuroo holds a degree in international business, and has a well-paying job and a nice apartment in Ikebukuro. Occasionally he talks about his job and sometimes about his black cat, whom he has rebelliously named Shiro.

In high school, they had a lot in common. Nowadays Kuroo has the feeling that he has less and less to talk about with his friends, and that life is going at a much faster pace than he is, with all his friends running past him.

Even Kenma, the forever gamer, extreme-shut-in Kenma plans to marry the fiery mandarin of Karasuno.

Here he stands, drifted away from his friends, like a sailing boat that has lost its anchor – floating further and further from reality, he feels – standing all alone in front of an art gallery, hesitating to enter.

It is the now he is lost in.

He has been standing here for what feels like ages since the taxi dropped him off. He wavers, even though he had made up his mind before. Walking in the lion’s den all on his own seems more and more dangerous with every passing second.

The door opens just as Kuroo is about to change his mind and turn on his heels to run. Through the door comes a man, sharp and spry and so breathtakingly beautiful that Kuroo freezes in motion. 

The man doesn’t notice him, turning away from the door to light a cigarette. In the orange light of the gas lighter, Kuroo can see dark shadows cast over deep set eyes and hooded lids. Akaashi seems tired, but ever so stunning. 

He blows out the smoke. His forever lazy looking eyes glance up the sky. 

Kuroo has nothing in common with art in general, but in this moment he thinks of Akaashi Keiji as a masterpiece.

Memories flick through his mind, and the sudden feeling of guilt drives him into the building.

 

The first room he walks into makes him want to turn back instantly.

In the center of the hall, lit with a myriad of lights, stands a sculpture of an amorphous torso with no head or arms but at least twelve legs casting shadows to the walls. 

Fear strangles Kuroo, gluing his eyes on the abomination. It looks like a centipede – and God knows Kuroo is bad with those – or a huge spider with human legs, and Kuroo knows it will haunt him in his dreams. Still, he finds the sculpture intriguing. There’s something in it – behind the layers of gross and grotesque – that he can resonate with.

He cautiously walks closer, ready to flee the moment the sculpture does something usual matter is not supposed to do.

“Pursuit,” he reads the tag under the abomination.

His insides churn with whatever unidentified feeling this is, which connects him to this huge mess of legs.

Kuroo stares, now up close, at the toes and ankles and knees and the curves of muscles and the thin lines of popliteal tendons, and he wonders how many models Akaashi had used to shape all these forms with such detail.

Kuroo feels drawn even closer, face bare centimeters away from a toe. It looks almost alive. It’s almost like a wicked living-breathing thing. A sudden urge awakens in him to lick it, but he suppresses his dirty impulse for the much more innocent poking of a finger, still an act unfavourable towards pieces of art.

The sculpture is not cold to the touch, not warm either. It’s smooth, even too smooth. It feels artificial.

Kuroo lets go of the toe, hurriedly glimpsing around, but no one has noticed him touching. He releases a deep breath – he didn’t notice he was keeping it in – and steps back from the sculpture.

The title troubles him.

Pursuit… of what?

 

So many legs.

Kuroo walks through the second room, with smaller sculptures, all pure white under red lights, all with the motif of legs.

There is a sculpture of a horse, which has human legs.

There is one of a tree with legs clutching around its trunk.

There is another with footsteps half washed away.

There is an installation by the wall; nothing much but a door swung open by a leg on the doorknob.

As he walks from sculpture to sculpture, the suspicion that Akaashi Keiji has a leg fetish is growing stronger and stronger in Kuroo.

 

The third room is small. The walls are covered in black drapery, the floor is carpeted likewise. On a well-lit pedestal stands a pure white sculpture in this darkness. It doesn’t take long for Kuroo to make the assumption that he has arrived to the most important piece of the exhibition, no matter how little interest or knowledge he has in art or galleries. 

Kuroo has a feeling he is peeking in on someone’s secret as he steps closer, examining the sculpture. This one is much smaller, almost tiny compared to the abomination showcased in the first hall, yet it feels bigger, with all the darkness and the placement on the pedestal. 

A kneeling male figure – the first entirely humanlike creature Kuroo has seen at this exhibition – is holding a lifted leg to his lips. The leg ends in large frills mid-thigh high, forming almost a flower in full blossom. The scene reminds Kuroo of Cinderella and the prince who puts the glass slipper on her foot, with the exception that the leg in the sculpture is undeniably that of a man’s, and instead of an odd shoe, a kiss is planted on the foot.

It looks romantic. A bitter feeling sinks into the pit of Kuroo’s stomach. This here is different from the fantasy nightmare in the other rooms. It’s very much a memory. A secret shared by no one else, but him and Akaashi.

 

They’d had a moment together; a split second they silently agreed to not talk about.

It happened during the summer camp of Kuroo’s last year in high school, when they had 3-on-3 matches with Bokuto, Lev, and the Karasuno first years.

“You’re bleeding, Kuroo-san,” Akaashi pointed out mid-game.

“True! There’s blood!” squeaked Hinata, and Tsukishima joined in with a murmured, “This is what you get, when you dive in so carelessly to reach the ball.”

As Kuroo looked down, he noticed the scrape on his knee. “Oh, this is nothing big,” he said absent-mindedly, “and you should be thankful I saved that point for us, Tsukishima, rather than grumbling to yourself.”

“You can’t play like this,” argued Akaashi. “Let’s clean it at least.”

“Let’s take a break?” Tsukishima offered.

“Yeah, five minute break!” Lev announced.

“Want me to teach you something fun?” Bokuto asked Hinata, and the two stormed off in an instant, shouting wildly at the other end of the gym.

Akaashi murmured something before turning to Kuroo. “Come,” he ushered Kuroo to the bench, rummaging through his bag. 

“What are you looking for?” Kuroo asked, smearing blood off of his shin.

“Water and disinfectant. Don’t touch your leg with your dirty hands, please.”

Kuroo halted his movements and let Akaashi handle things. The boy looked quite adorable, dead serious and deeply in focus, as he started his ministrations on Kuroo’s knee. He has squatted down and rinsed out the scratch, washing away the dirt from the scraped skin, and then blotting the water softly with a tissue. He put disinfectant on the wound skillfully, then his hand slid down Kuroo’s leg to stop by his ankle. He held Kuroo’s foot up, examining it with squinted eyes.

“Your ankle seems fine,” he said. 

Kuroo instinctively rolled his foot around. “Yeah, everything’s fine,” he replied, voice hitching as Akaashi’s hands touched his foot.

“Thank God,” the boy murmured, lips so close that Kuroo could feel his breath between his toes.

It was a brand new feeling, strange yet impulsive, which ran over him like lightning or a summer storm, and Kuroo wanted to squat down to reach Akaashi to touch him and to hold him in his arms.

It was a frightening thought.

As if on cue, Akaashi looked up and their gazes met.

Kuroo knew that if not for the others in the gym, Akaashi might have  kissed his  foot already. The thought intrigued him. It caught him off guard. He wished, he realised, for it to happen. This realisation was alarming.

He yearned to lean down and kiss the boy himself.

As if they had popped out of time, Kuroo felt as if their surroundings all slowed down and blurred, the noises of the others  fading. He felt Akaashi’s fingers on his sole slightly tremble, but he didn’t break off eye contact.

It was desire. It was some weird flame engulfing them, burning them to ashes and leaving them for the wind to blow them away. It was a sudden physical aspect attaching itself to their well-established bond of mutual respect and friendly bickering. It gave a whole new dimension to their story, an element unknown to Kuroo before.

He had never considered this as a possibility.

His face flushed red, flustered.

He freed his leg from Akaashi’s touch, pulling his socks and shoes back on in the speed of light.

“It’s not good for your face to be so close to my feet, I sweat a lot and you may faint from the smell,” he jabbered, looking away.

“I see,” Akaashi said. Kuroo glanced back, and as their eyes met, a silent agreement formed between them.

They would never talk about this.

 

Then, Kuroo was seventeen, and he was afraid. 

Now he is twenty-seven, and he searches for the title of the sculpture fervently like a stranded man looks for water in the desert.

“Phantom pain”, he reads. 

It’s a medical condition he has heard of; it’s when the sensation of pain is coming from a body part that's no longer there, experienced by people after amputations.

“It’s quite roundabout,” he murmurs.

“You think so?” asks the man standing beside him. “Thank you for dropping by, by the way.”

Kuroo gets a small heart attack when he realises that he is not alone, but Akaashi’s smirk is not something he is willing to give in to. At least, not so soon.

“That leg has never been part of your body, to start off with,” he says.

Akaashi lets out a small chuckle.

“True,” he admits. “It still hurt, when we got separated.”

“Don’t you have a bit of a leg fetish, dear Akaashi?” Kuroo turns to the man.

Akaashi’s lazy eyes wander off, as if contemplating the answer.

“People tend to say so, but I have no idea why.”

“Are you sure?” Kuroo gestures around.

“I have no interest in legs in general, but I have a pair of legs I am particularly fond of. I’ve been searching for a replacement for them, but I failed to find anything so perfect.”

“So that’s what the Pursuit is about,” Kuroo whispers, almost mockingly.

“That’s a feverish nightmare.”

“But so many legs…” Kuroo teases.

“People can get eager,” Akaashi agrees.

“I hope you know that people’s legs change in ten years.”

“If I were you I would be careful with my words, Kuroo-san. People might take them as an invitation.”

Then, Kuroo was seventeen, and he didn’t dare to cross the line. Now Kuroo is twenty-seven, and he realises that there has never been a line to begin with.

He looks at Akaashi.

“You should take it as an invitation,” he says.


End file.
